The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 914 MacArthur's American Winning Strategy
At 2 p.m., more than thirty steam tanks from the 2nd Armored Regiment of the 2nd Armored Cavalry Division of the U.S. East Coast Army arrived at the battlefield and assembled behind Highway 65. Patton, mounted on his horse, pointed his whip at the smoke-filled Bison Hill and roared at Colonel Thomas Ridgway (Ridgway's grandfather), the commander of the newly arrived 2nd Armored Regiment, "See that hill? I want you to wipe it off the map with artillery fire!"

Ridgway, from a military family in New York State, saluted Patton, then turned to the messenger and ordered: "The entire regiment shall deploy into battle formation! Cavalry artillery company, prepare for fire coverage!" The order was quickly relayed, and forty MK.1 tanks formed a standard wedge-shaped attack formation, their 37mm rapid-fire guns slowly raised and aimed at Bison Hill in the distance.

Meanwhile, the 66 75mm cavalry guns of the U.S. 1st Armored Cavalry Division and the 6 75mm cavalry guns of the 2nd Armored Regiment were also set up in the rear. These highly mobile light artillery pieces, pulled by horses, could be deployed in minutes. The gunners skillfully loaded shrapnel shells, preparing to provide barrage cover for the tank charge.

"Ready—Fire!" With the artillery commander's order, all 72 cavalry cannons roared simultaneously. The piercing whistling of the shells cutting through the air was chilling, followed by a series of fireballs exploding on Bison Hill. Sandbag fortifications were blasted to pieces, and a severed arm, still attached to a uniform sleeve, flew directly to Luo Xinzhong's feet.

"Bombardment! Take cover!" Luo Xinzhong roared as he rushed into the trench, experiencing his first artillery bombardment. He felt the earth tremble, and the blast wave whipped up dirt that rained down on his back. A piece of shrapnel grazed his helmet, making a sickening metallic scraping sound, which sent chills down his spine.

The shelling lasted a full fifteen minutes. When the explosions finally ceased, Luo Xinzhong shook the mud off his clothes and looked up to see utter devastation. Two of Yamamotoji's anti-tank gun positions had been destroyed, and two precious 45mm rapid-fire guns were reduced to twisted scrap metal. Medics ran back and forth in the trenches, and the screams of the wounded echoed throughout the area.

"Brigade Commander! Yamamoto-ji Company couldn't move in time, and two cannons were destroyed!" Yumi screamed, clutching the field phone. Her face was covered in blood and dirt, but fortunately, her uniform was intact and she had no scars on her face, so the blood probably wasn't hers.

Amidst the smoke and fire, Luo Xinzhong saw Yamamoto Ichiro dragging a wounded artilleryman towards a backup position. The back of his uniform was soaked with blood, but he still clutched the Buddhist prayer beads tightly, muttering, "The Father God teaches that in a narrow encounter, the brave shall prevail."

Before Luo Xinzhong could even catch his breath, the observation post sounded the alarm again: "Enemy tanks are coming! 800 meters away!" He quickly raised his binoculars and saw more than forty MK.1 tanks lined up in a neat row, aggressively pressing towards Buffalo Hill. Behind the tanks followed a dense swarm of infantry, the American soldiers carrying lever-action rifles and their waists laden with grenades and explosive charges.

"All expendable artillery, prepare to fire! Molotov cocktail squad, take your positions!" Luo Xinzhong's voice was hoarse, but he knew this was not the time to back down. He drew his revolver and fired a shot into the sky: "For Heavenly Father and Heavenly Brother! Fight to the death!"

The remaining anti-tank guns on Buffalo Hill opened fire again, but this time the American tanks had learned their lesson. They constantly changed speed and direction, making it difficult for the gunners to aim. The four 45mm anti-tank guns were almost smoking before they managed to damage four more MK.1 tanks. To make matters worse, the American carbine artillery began a new round of covering fire, with shells exploding continuously around the exposed artillery positions.

A MK.IV tank broke through the fire blockade and charged straight towards the reverse slope of Bison Hill. Luo Xinzhong watched helplessly as it rolled over a trench, crushing the five soldiers inside into a bloody pulp before they could even scream. The tank's machine gun fired wildly, bullets scattering sparks as they hit the rocks.

"Stop it!" Luo Xinzhong roared to the messenger beside him. Several Molotov cocktail squads immediately circled around from the side, but the American infantry's rifle fire was too intense, and only one man managed to get close to the tank. The slender Osaka soldier nimbly dodged the machine gun fire and accurately threw the Molotov cocktail into the tank's observation window.

With a deafening roar, a fireball erupted from inside the tank, black smoke billowing from every crevice. The crew members screamed as they crawled out, only to be riddled with bullets by the waiting riflemen. But before the defenders could even cheer, another tank broke through the line.
At 5 p.m., as dusk approached, General Patton committed his last reserves. This time, he spared no expense, bringing in the division's 152mm howitzer battery, determined to capture Buffalo Hill, the site that had caused him so much loss.

"All artillery ready! High-explosive salvo!" The US artillery commander waved his small flag. Six 152mm howitzers roared deafeningly, shells tracing high parabolic arcs before crashing into Buffalo Hill at near-vertical angles. This indirect fire was far more powerful than the previous 75mm cavalry guns, each explosion sending up a fireball ten meters in diameter.

Luo Xinzhong huddled in the deepest part of the hastily dug trench, his hands tightly covering his ears. With each shell that landed, he felt as if his insides were about to be shattered. One shell hit a section of the trench directly, and a squad of soldiers inside vanished without a trace, leaving only a crater emitting blue smoke.

The shelling lasted a full twenty minutes. When the explosions finally ceased, Luo Xinzhong trembled as he crawled out of the trench. The sight before him made his stomach churn: Bison Hill was completely wrecked, littered with shell craters and corpses. Of the six anti-tank gun positions, only two remained operational, and two more precious 45mm rapid-fire guns were reduced to twisted scrap metal—these guns were indeed formidable against tanks, having destroyed a total of nine MK.1 tanks, but unfortunately, their mobility was poor, making it difficult to relocate before enemy artillery fire could reach them. If only the anti-tank guns could be equipped with tracks and armor plating.
“Report casualties.” His voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible.

Yumi staggered over, her left arm lacerated by shrapnel, blood soaking half her sleeve: "The 4th Regiment... suffered nearly 30% casualties. One of the three infantry battalions was decimated and has already been rotated out. Only two anti-tank guns remain operational."

Luo Xinzhong looked towards the battlefield and saw that the third wave of the American attack had begun. This time, a full fifty tanks were advancing in three echelons. Behind the tanks followed two cavalry regiments, the cowboys on tall horses brandishing their sabers and shouting.

"Brigade Commander, we can't hold on any longer!" The commander of the Fourth Regiment came up with his face covered in blood. One of his legs looked like it had been broken and was wrapped in layers of gauze. Two female attendants were supporting him.

Looking at the seriously wounded officer, Luo Xinzhong suddenly had a flash of inspiration and said in a low voice, "Change the flag."

Yumi was stunned for a moment: "What?"

"I said change the flag! Raise the rice stalk and cross flag!" Luo Xinzhong practically roared these words.

A battle flag embroidered with golden ears of rice and a black cross slowly rose amidst the smoke of battle. This was the flag of the Shinto Shrine of Japan, and also the national flag of the "Japanese Divine Nation"—the 4th Brigade had been using the "black, red, and yellow flag" since entering North America, which made the soldiers of the 4th Brigade suspicious of the purpose of this war.

Luo Xinzhong said in a hoarse voice, "The Fourth Brigade will not have sacrificed in vain. The American West is very open, and we can definitely build another state with Japanese Americans in the future!"

"Hey!" Yumi and the battered regimental commander shouted together, instantly energized.

The surviving soldiers, seeing the flag, seemed to understand something and crawled out of the trenches. Some picked up the rifles of their fallen comrades, some tied their last few grenades together, and others grabbed entrenching tools, preparing for hand-to-hand combat—they finally understood why they were fighting!
"Let's prepare for a final stand." Luo Xinzhong picked up a Type 22 rifle, loading it with bullets as he whispered, "Just hold out until nightfall. The Americans won't dare launch a night attack with their tanks; we'll just have to lay down mines in the dark. Tomorrow morning, we'll hold out a little longer at Buffalo Hill and then withdraw. That way, by the time they advance to Bellevue-Weldburg, it won't be until noon at the earliest. By the time they start shelling, it'll be around afternoon, and the position will be very fortified!"

He sighed, turned to Yumi, and said, "If I die, remember to tell me, Dad, that I've always tried my best. I'm smarter than the eldest, but not that smart."

Tears welled up in Yumi's eyes, but she quickly wiped them away and nodded firmly.

As dusk fell, when the twenty-seventh MK.1 tank lost that day exploded in flames, Patton finally gave the order to retreat. His 1st Armored Cavalry Division and the 2nd Armored Regiment of the 2nd Armored Cavalry Division, which had come to its aid, had lost twenty-seven tanks and suffered over a thousand casualties in the day's fighting. Those once awe-inspiring steel behemoths were now piles of smoking scrap metal scattered across the wasteland surrounding Buffalo Hill.

Luo Xinzhong slumped in a shell crater, trembling as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, but couldn't light a match. His uniform was torn in several places by shrapnel, and his face was covered in gunpowder and blood. In the distance, medics were moving among the wounded, their screams and groans echoing around them.

Daidouji Yumi struggled over, carrying a casualty report. Her uniform was tattered, and a blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around her left arm: "Dead: 807; Seriously Wounded: 234; All six anti-tank guns destroyed."

Luo Xinzhong nodded blankly. He looked towards the battlefield, the afterglow of the setting sun casting an eerie golden hue over the carnage. Corpses lay sprawled on the ground in various positions: some crushed by tanks, some shattered by machine gun fire, and others torn to pieces by artillery shells. A few surviving Osaka soldiers were rummaging through the piles of corpses, hoping to rescue one or two comrades who were still breathing.

"Did we...win?" Luo Xinzhong muttered to himself. Strictly speaking, they had only temporarily held Bison Hill; they were still far from "winning"!

Yumi was silent for a moment, then whispered, "Our Heavenly Father and Heavenly Brother will remember their sacrifice."

Luo Xinzhong added, "They will not have sacrificed in vain. The Western Union must provide sufficient land compensation to our soldiers and the families of the fallen!"

In the smoke-filled twilight, MacArthur stood atop the command vehicle, the embers of his corn pipe flickering in the dusk. He slowly lowered his brass binoculars, and through the lens, he saw the tattered Rice Cross flag atop Buffalo Hill—its surface torn in three places by shrapnel, yet still stubbornly fluttering in the evening breeze.

“They’ll retreat to Bellevue-Weldburg tomorrow,” MacArthur suddenly said. “They’ll evacuate the wounded by rail, use churches as hospitals, and turn every house into a bunker.” He turned to Patton. “Just like they did at Vicksburg. If I remember correctly, your father was killed at Vicksburg!”

Although "Old Patton" was from Virginia, he was a major general in the Union Army and died in the Battle of Vicksburg.

Patton slammed his fist on the armor plating, making the carriage headlights rattle: "Lieutenant General! Let me charge again tonight!" He pointed to the burning wreckage of tanks in the distance, "Those yellow-skinned monkeys only have two cannons left! My artillery can handle it!"

“No.” MacArthur slammed his pipe down on the battle map, burning a charred hole in the Denver-West Dakota railroad line. “Victory doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be loud enough.” He suddenly grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow with nicotine. “Guess what the London Times will write? ‘American Armored Forces Break Through Key Rebel Line in the Western US’—what a wonderful headline!’”

An eerie silence fell. The staff officers exchanged glances, some secretly polishing their medals in preparation for a photo. Patton's beard twitched, and he finally managed to utter, "But we haven't taken Bellevue yet."

"Fools!" MacArthur suddenly roared, startling the crows on the roof of the car. "The British fleet is loitering in the Pacific. What are they waiting for? They're waiting for the perfect moment to strike! The British only want victory, not the risk of defeat. We have to give them the perfect opportunity!"

Barton's pupils suddenly contracted.

"Now you understand?" MacArthur's voice suddenly lowered. "Let those yellow-skinned monkeys cower in Bellevue like turtles, while we go around and cut the railway. Once the British journalists have spread the good news all over the world," he made a money-throwing gesture, "then the Royal Navy can step in and reap the spoils."

A train whistle sounded in the distance; a train carrying ammunition was heading towards Fort Weld. MacArthur pointed his pipe at the train, the smoke tracing an arc in the air: "Look how earnestly they're fortifying their lines overnight! How moving!" He suddenly burst into laughter, "That's the most perfect victory!"

Patton's salute trembled with resentment. That night, on the American East Coast lines, a communications soldier used a wired radio he had pulled along to send a clear message to the world: "The American Armored Corps has achieved a great victory, annihilating 3,000 enemy troops and surrounding 10,000 in Bellevue." — Meanwhile, the real steel torrent was quietly turning towards the dark northern wilderness.

(End of this chapter)